


slow kill

by rynleaf



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Adrastean Empire, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, background edeleth if you squint, convincing your husband you're right with the power of... umm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22901110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rynleaf/pseuds/rynleaf
Summary: “Section two, paragraphs three to seven,” Hubert says, pointing at the relevant document without breaking eye contact. Ferdinand narrows his eyes.“Ships and marine delivery.”“Precisely.”They stay like that, resolutely staring, for several moments. Ferdinand fidgets with his collar. Hubert’s smirk widens.“Oh no,” Dorothea stage whispers from the side, “they are both establishing dominance!”“I think,” Edelgard clears her throat, and from the corner of his eyes Hubert can see her putting a firm hand over Dorothea’s elbow, “we should allow Ministers von Vestra and von Aegir to clear up whatever misunderstanding they must before we finish. There is tea in the Summer Parlour.”-in which border taxes are negotiated, a Brigid diplomatic attaché is moderately scandalised, and Dorothea has a perfectly lovely time.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 31
Kudos: 486





	slow kill

**Author's Note:**

> the fic is titled slow kill because ferdibert has slowly killed me and I shall never recover

As far as the world by large is concerned, it starts in a secluded Garreg Mach courtyard on one of many harried days between battles: there is a packet of fine tea and a bag of coffee involved, Ferdinand blushes while staring at him, resolute, and a member of the Imperial Military almost walks through a closed door while craning her neck to see the scene unfold. 

For Hubert, it starts the moment he catches a glimpse of the Prime Minister’s teenage son through the crowd of Edelgard’s fourteenth birthday ball. 

He is fifteen years old. His stomach lurches, and he thinks:  _ oh. _

Then Ferdinand von Aegir opens his mouth, and the feeling of slow, stirring interest turns to visceral dislike so fast, Hubert fears he might get whiplash from it. 

“You have always been somewhat harsh in your judgement,” Edelgard tells him over tea one day, smiling as they observe Byleth and Ferdinand spar a few feet below the walled terrace. The glass windows are thrown open, and the breeze carries in the sound of birds and steel on steel, the scent of flowering apple trees. Byleth barks a short laugh. Edelgard’s expression grows soft. 

“One of us had to be,” Hubert says. If the remark is somewhat pointed, neither of them mention it. 

“In any case,” Edelgard says, smiling while she absentmindedly turns the silver band on her ring finger around and around, “I  _ am  _ rather happy Ferdinand has managed to grow out of the whole one-sided rivalry business eventually.”

“He is still an argumentative shit.” 

“You  _ like _ that he’s an argumentative shit, Hubert.” 

Hubert hums, non-committal, but they both know it’s only for show: he has indeed learnt to appreciate Ferdinand’s bright and contrary nature over time, his spirit, his never ending, inexhaustible enthusiasm. Nobody gives him a fight as good as Ferdinand does. Edelgard’s court despairs over it, but its effect is undeniable--the imperial machine has never ran so smoothly, its minute and large scale problems argued and coaxed and battered into submission by the Emperor’s two most stubborn hands. 

Hubert takes a sip of his coffee, follows the graceful arch of Ferdinand’s sword arm with interest, and smiles. 

  
  


Ferdinand is being an argumentative  _ shit, _ and Hubert wants to murder him. 

The trade meeting starts innocuously enough: they are hammering out the final details of the border tax agreement between Adrestia and Brigid, the three of them cooped up in one of the palace’s many conference rooms with the Minister of Finance and one of Brigid’s brand new diplomatic attachés. 

Dorothea, Ambassador of Adrastea to Brigid, is leaning artfully against a dainty tea table and observes, amused. 

Her presence is  _ not _ helping. 

“Von Vestra,” Ferdinand is in a  _ mood,  _ Hubert can tell. “Must you vex me so? Are you being difficult on  _ purpose? _ I sent you these documents a week ago!”

“And I have read them,” Hubert says with an unpleasant smile that is guaranteed to make the muscle next to Ferdinand’s eye twitch. “I decided that in this case, they are irrelevant.”

_ “Irrelevant,” _ Ferdinand raises his eyes heavenward, as if asking the goddess for help was ever of any use. Irritation wars with fondness in Hubert’s belly. It blooms, curls around his spine with familiar heat, and he grins into the sensation: the desire to bite the mask of Prime Minister off of Ferdinand’s face is just on this side of irresistible, and he knows Ferdinand can read it in his expression. Ferdinand straightens, pushes his prim and proper braid back from his shoulder, and sets his jaw in stubborn determination. 

Fight it is. Hubert can live with that. 

He leans in and rests his chin on his steepled fingers, eyes half-hidden by his hair, and watches with gratified glee as Ferdinand’s throat works over a swallow. 

“Section two, paragraphs three to seven,” Hubert says, pointing at the relevant document without breaking eye contact. Ferdinand narrows his eyes. 

“Ships and marine delivery.” 

_ “Precisely.” _

They stay like that, resolutely staring, for several moments. Ferdinand fidgets with his collar. Hubert’s smirk widens. 

“Oh no,” Dorothea stage whispers from the side, “they are both establishing dominance!”

“I think,” Edelgard clears her throat, and from the corner of his eyes Hubert can see her putting a firm hand over Dorothea’s elbow, “we should allow Ministers von Vestra and von Aegir to clear up whatever misunderstanding they must before we finish. There is tea in the Summer Parlour.”

“But  _ Edie, _ please, things have  _ just _ gotten interesting,” Dorothea says brightly and the Finance Minister sputters with equal times mirth and embarrassment, Dorothea laughing her tinkling stage-laugh as Edelgard shepherds them all outside.

Hubert cannot find it in himself to care. 

“You,” he hisses, rising from behind the table. “You are doing it  _ again.” _

Ferdinand, the beautiful, vexing little shit he is, dares to smile. 

“I am right. You know I am right.”

“Hah!” Hubert whirls around, paces the length of the table, then turns back. “You know maritime law renders your argument moot.” 

“Then maritime law is  _ wrong!” _

“Ferdinand!” 

_ “Hubert!” _

“You,” Hubert says again, quiet, and the tone makes Ferdinand’s lashes dip, “are doing this on purpose.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Ferdinand says, eyes never leaving Hubert’s. His lashes are almost gold, a fan of brightness over his eyes, pupils blown, sparkling. There is a flush high on his cheeks. 

Hubert observes an ungloved hand, broad and strong, draw that damned braid back over a uniformed shoulder again, watches it fiddle with the black ribbon at its end. Hubert recognises it as a gift he has given him, years ago. The sight makes his heart ache with something warm. 

“You are really trying my patience,” he says. “One might think you’re angling for  _ violence.” _

“You must only ask, dearest,” Ferdinant says primly. He has the audacity to smile--Hubert’s heart sings as he steps closer with a scowl he knows isn’t convincing at all, and he yanks Ferdinand up from his chair without hesitation. 

Ferdinand presses himself closer. The contact leaves Hubert breathless. 

“Let’s rewrite maritime law,” Ferdinand whispers into his ear right before he scrapes his teeth down his neck. 

Hubert loses all his remaining composure. 

The kiss is bruising, harsh and gleeful: Ferdinand laughs into his mouth as he pulls Hubert closer, fingers scraping over the short hair at the nape of his neck. Hubert digs nails into where his hand rests on Ferdinand’s lower back. It can’t hurt, through Ferdinand’s coat and his gloves, but Ferdinand hisses and arches into it anyway: a surprising thing, for Hubert expected the spoiled von Aegir heir to be a man of poetry and gentle, candlelit lovemaking over silken sheets. 

Not that either of them are opposed to any of those things. This though.  _ This. _ Hubert slips his hand under Ferdinand’s jacket, maps out his ribs under his shirt with an urgency that makes Ferdinand sigh with pleasure. 

Hubert never dared allowing himself the desire to be  _ wanted. _ Edelgard calls him dramatic for it, but he  _ is _ a creature of darkness, first and foremost: poisonmaker, court schemer, assassin. Ferdinand is none of those things.

Fifteen year old Hubert might choke if he was told he’d get to have the brattish von Aegir heir like this, sometime in the future: beautiful, strong, wanting him in whatever way Hubert is willing to give himself. 

Right now what he wants is to bury his nose into the crook of his lover’s neck, lift him to sit on Edelgard’s mahogany conference table, and attempt to pound some sense into him. 

_ Impossible, _ he thinks, and smiles when he feels Ferdinand tug him closer. 

“Paragraph three,” Hubert says as he yanks his cloak off, followed soon by Ferdinand’s jacket. Their fingers knock into each other over shirt buttons. “Paragraph three clearly states--”

“If you consider the Arianrhod Agreement from Emperor Ghyslain’s time--yes, like that,  _ ah,” _ Ferdinand pants into his mouth, arching into Hubert’s fingers brushing his nipple. “Gloves,” he adds, “please, dearest.” 

Hubert only freezes for a second, but Ferdinand wastes no time grabbing his hand, kissing down the inside of his wrist. “You don’t have to, Hubert. But I do so love the feel of your hands on me.” 

“Shameless,” Hubert croaks. His heart feels impossibly full. 

The gloves end up in a pile next to their outer clothes, and Hubert watches his scarred, discoloured fingers splay against Ferdinand’s sun-kissed skin. 

“Yes, dearest,  _ yes. _ The Arianrhod Agreement says that  _ ship travel _ between Adrestia and--ah--Faerghus--”

_ “Faerghus,” _ Hubert says into Ferdinand’s neck, tracing his tongue over the bite mark he just left, “is  _ not _ the Sovereign Kingdom of Brigid, as far as I’m aware.” 

“The precedence!” Ferdinand exclaims, clinging to Hubert’s neck. Hubert grinds his thigh against his straining cock, and the argument is lost in a loud cry--Ferdinand lets his head fall back, exposing his throat, and it’s only so much willpower a man can have: Hubert tucks his chin over his shoulder, nuzzles against his skin, and begins unhooking the fastenings of Ferdinand’s breeches. 

“You are… distracting me,” Ferdinand says, voice breathy. “I like it.” 

Hubert brushes his hand against Ferdinand through his smallclothes. “You were talking about the Arianrhod Agreement,” he remarks, aiming for bored, sounding somewhat wrecked instead. Fine. His ego will live. 

“The Arianrhod Agreement--yes, just like that,  _ oh-- _ determines, amongst others, taxing precedence between the Empire and the Holy King-Kingdom, fuck,  _ Hubert.  _ Hubert!”

Hubert looks up from where he’s kneeling on the floor, bracketed by Ferdinand’s thighs. He is exactly eye level with Ferdinand’s cock, half-hidden behind his fingers from where he drew him out of is smalls, hard and leaking, and he grins in gleeful anticipation: Ferdinand looks down, eyes wide with disbelief, argument forgotten. 

His father called him a useless cocksucker, once. 

If only he knew how right he was. 

Hubert hopes the old Count von Vestra is rolling in his grave as he rises to kiss the head of Ferdinand’s cock, eyes still firmly on his lover’s face. Ferdinand closes his eyes, and his hand twitches as if wanting to fly up, to cover his mouth-- _ no, _ Hubert thinks, and clamps down on both of Ferdinand’s hands, relishing the sensation of muscles straining against his hold. 

“Hubert,” Ferdinand whispers. “Hubert. Hubert, Hubert.”

Hubert swallows. The noise Ferdinand makes as he draws up, cheeks hollow, is the most satisfying thing he has heard all fucking day. 

“Hubert. Yes, yes. Yes. Please,  _ oh,  _ please, yes--”

Hubert pulls off his cock and smiles pleasantly. 

“Maritime law,” he says. “Explain, dearest.”

_ “Hubert!”  _

Yet Ferdinand can do nothing but tilt his hips up as Hubert takes him into his mouth again, swallowing around him with long years of practice. 

“Maritime law,” Ferdinand says, and he sounds absolutely wrecked. “It can be rewritten--ah--to mimic the Arianrhod Agreement, only with--oh  _ Hubert,  _ Hubert--Dorothea’s assistant, what was her name, shit…”

“Fiona,” Hubert supplies helpfully, before licking the head of Ferdinant’s cock in a slow, deliberate swipe. 

“Shit, fuck,  _ Fiona _ must have--Hubert, Hubert, fuck, I  _ can’t--” _

He is close, Hubert can tell: Ferdinand von Aegir never swears unless it is absolutely urgent, and nothing is more urgent in this moment than chasing the edge of the pleasure he gives him. Hubert slows down only to hear Ferdinand’s drawn out cry, punctuated by fingers curling into his hair. 

“Hubert, I’m-- _ please.” _

“Yes,” Hubert whispers, before swallowing one last time. 

Ferdinand comes with a shuddering cry. 

Hubert grins, satisfied, until clumsy fingers begin to scramble around his shoulders, urging him up, up. 

“You,” Ferdinand breathes into his mouth. “You. Hubert. Dearest.”

“Yes.”

“Must you be  _ so _ complicated.”

_ “Yes,”  _ Hubert mutters into Ferdinand’s neck, leaning closer to the searching fingers reaching to work his trousers open. When Ferdinand’s calloused fingers finally wrap around him, he cannot help a choked back moan: it’s just on this side of too rough, urgent and earnest as Ferdinand pushes through the haze of his own pleasure. Perfect. Wonderful. 

“Yes, dearest, yes,” Ferdinand urges him as Hubert bucks in his hand, and it doesn’t take long at all after that. 

He comes all over Ferdinand’s fingers and stomach, breathing short, staccato breaths into his neck as he does, arms wrapped firmly around his torso.

“I love you,” Ferdinand says. He is stroking his hair with his clean hand, a gesture so affectionate it took Hubert months to believe he meant it in sincerity: back then their arguments were more bitter, their lovemaking more desperate.

It was wartime, and war is never kind to lovers. 

“Let’s rewrite maritime law,” Hubert mumbles into Ferdinand’s neck, and Ferdinand’s chest shakes with his sudden, bright laughter. 

  
  


“Decision made?” Edelgard asks, peering at them over the rim of a porcelain teacup. Dorothea looks like a cat that got the cream. Her assistant appears suddenly engrossed in whatever paperwork is spread out around the table, and Hubert can’t help tugging on his collar, just to check that his buttons are done up and tightened properly. 

There is no helping Ferdinand’s pleased glow as he bows, black ribbon fluttering at the end of his braid. 

“We shall proceed, then,” Edelgard says, frowns, then adds: “Perhaps we should stay here and send some servants to clear out the conference room, yes?”

“That would be prudent,” Hubert replies, smiling the bland smile of a dutiful house servant, and ignores Ferdinand’s spluttering laugh entirely. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3


End file.
